


Defeat

by TheGirlInTheBlackVeil



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Depression, Fluff, M/M, Medication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9855302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlInTheBlackVeil/pseuds/TheGirlInTheBlackVeil
Summary: Merlin's about to turn his back on his own morals, something he swore he would never do, but that was before Arthur and Arthur's worth admitting defeat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was done really quickly (well, as quickly as typing 4000 words can be done, which turns out to be an hour and a half) in lieu of studying for my counselling psychology class (I swear psychology is really interesting, which is why I'm majoring in it, unfortunately in my case "interesting" means "can be applied to my stories" and therefore I often find myself creating stories in my head instead of studying, at least this one made it to paper). Also this one has a happy ending, I promise (I was getting the feeling that people were a bit disappointed with my nonexistent or *sort of* happy endings so this one is really fucking apparent). Also even though I wrote this quickly it is supposed to feel haphazard, it's supposed to represent Merlin's mental state so it's chaotic and disconnected (but hopefully coherent, it is quarter to 4am, give me a break, yeah?). 
> 
> Merlin has dysthymia, anxiety, and blood-injection-injury type phobia in this one but there's nothing hardcore (no suicide attempts or panic attacks etc.) so you probably don't need a warning but here it is just in case.

He restlessly taps his foot, anxiety creeping up on him. He shouldn’t even feel anxious, not yet, the bus isn’t even supposed to be here for another three minutes, but he’s been standing here for five minutes already, afraid that it would come early, so it feels like it is late and that he is going to be late. Which is also ridiculous because the bus should get him there fifteen minutes early and his doctor is _always_ late, in all his years going to her only once has she been on time and that was because he had had the first appointment of the day. He breathes in, breathes out, checks the time on his phone and smiles.

His lock screen is a picture of Arthur, dressed in child-like fleece pyjamas with polka dots. He had taken the photo in secret, last weekend when Arthur had been sick with a bad cold and Merlin had looked after him. He doesn’t look ill in the photo, appears to be sleeping peacefully, morning sunlight highlighting his features. Normally Merlin would be too self-conscious to have a photo like that as his lock screen, anyone could be behind or beside him and see it, it’s too personal, too revealing, even though he knows most people are accepting these days (or at least tolerant enough not to do anything) bullying in the past has him fearing homophobia.

Today’s different though. He intentionally put the photo there because he needs the motivation and the peace it brings. He knows his own triggers, being late is a big one and so is getting lost, something that happens an awful lot, he has a terrible sense of direction. He needs his phone to check both the time and the directions he downloaded (it makes him feel a bit foolish to need directions to his doctor’s office because he’s been going to the same place since he was five, but he doesn’t drive and busing is very different from driving), either way he’ll be able to see the photo. This bus better hurry up though otherwise he’ll call it quits now and hightail it back home and no one will be any wiser. Finally, he sees it at the top of the hill, checking the time again it’s only two minutes late, that could affect his schedule. When he sees the bus driver he fantasizes about having an argument him. This guy regularly drives this route and is almost always late, he actually will stop the bus on the side of the road to take personal calls and often spends too long at terminals having a smoke break. He knows he won’t actually say anything, doesn’t even have the guts to glare at the man, nor will he report him, even though Arthur almost convinced him to do it once because the bus had been late so he had missed his connection and been late to work and got yelled at by his boss and had called Arthur in tears because of it.

Breathe in, breath out.

“His” seat is available so he takes it, sending a disgusted look at whatever is smeared on the adjoining seat. He likes these old buses, they have two seats tucked in right behind the driver that are far away from all the other seats and usually no one is inclined to take them because they are too close to the door, but that’s just another reason Merlin likes them. He was irrationally upset when he discovered the newer models of buses that would be replacing the old ones actually didn’t have the same internal layout and therefore didn’t have “his” seat. Arthur had just reminded him that it would take them ages to replace all the buses and while he might be inconvenienced a few times he’d probably have his own car before it became a real issue.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He tries to do some readings for his uni courses, but is suffering from a bit of motion sickness, or maybe that’s just the anxiety.  Busing takes too fucking long, normally he could be there in half an hour and yet here he is wasting an entire day for an appointment that would probably only take ten minutes. Hour and a half there, fifteen minutes early (just in case) and probably an hour wait, ten minutes in the office, another fifteen at the pharmacy, knowing his luck a half hour wait for the bus to take him home and then another hour and a half trip. It feels like such a waste to not do anything during that time, but he can’t focus on what he’s reading and it’s obviously making him feel worse. Sighing in defeat he puts his textbook back in his bag. He has a moment of panic when he goes to check his phone for the time and realizes that his bus pass isn’t in his pocket. He finds it in his knapsack, in the pocket it is supposed to be in, and breathes a sigh of relief. He checks the time, smiles. Probably not going to make it though, that means a fifteen minute walk. He had planned for as much but had really been hoping to make that connection that would take him right outside the building. Unfortunately, the next bus that went that way wasn’t for another half hour so he would be late. He’d have to walk. Hopefully he’d make it, they were only five minutes late, he should still arrive with ten minutes to spare…if he didn’t get lost. Geez, why had he brought his textbook and laptop? Now it was just one more thing to carry and slow him down, heaven forbid he drop his bag in a puddle or something.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He listens carefully as the bus announces each stop. He normally gets off way earlier and so doesn’t know by heart when to ring the bell. He pulls the cord quickly when it announces his stop and he quickly does up his coat and shucks on his bag, double checking to make sure he has everything. “Thank you, have a nice day,” he tells the bus driver out of habit and receives a grunt in response. The sun is blinding when he steps off and he quickly moves away from the bus so others can get off but feels rather lost and spins in a circle. He’s in the middle of the road on a pavilion, the bus shelter has a departure board but isn’t listing the bus he needs, does that mean he’s missed it? He then realizes there’s another bus stop sign at the other end of the pavilion, it’s for the bus he needs but no departure board to tell him when the next one is. _Why couldn’t they just combine the stops? That way everyone could use the shelter and they wouldn’t have to make a new board?_ He checks the time and concludes that he must have missed it, _fifteen minute walk here we go_ he thinks to himself. On Google Maps it showed a stop sign, he should cross there, even though there’s no cross walk, it’s the only way to get off the pavilion. He almost gets hit by a car that’s turning the corner too quickly but makes it in one piece, with only a middle finger from the driver too.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He starts the trek and quickly criticizes himself for wearing a winter coat, even though it’s only a few degrees above freezing it’s sunny and becoming much too warm to walk in. Luckily he has water but he probably can’t take off his coat because then he’ll be too cold. He could probably slow down, but it feels like this is taking too long and he’ll be late. He’ll carry on like this, ignoring the stich forming in his side, he’ll drink his water once he’s signed in at the office. He checks the time again, _oh shit, it’s five to_ he should be there already. Did he miss it? The building is tucked in behind a restaurant and there’s no sign out front but surely he wouldn’t have passed it? A few minutes later it becomes apparent that, yes, he must have passed it because he was only supposed to have to cross at two lights and not only is there a third intersection up ahead but it’s a three way intersection and straight isn’t an option. He couldn’t have miscounted because it was a straight walk all the way down Elm street, he was supposed to go through two intersection and after the second set of lights the office was supposed to be only a minute away. He doubles back, startling the woman out walking her dogs that was following behind him, and picks up his pace. He can’t be late. If he’s late he probably won’t have the courage to go in and then he’ll go home and all of this will have been for nothing, not to mention it will probably increase his avoidance behaviour meaning he’ll never be able to do it, it has to be today. It has to. His eyes start to water in despair and he breaks out in a run, no longer caring about the sight he makes, a scrawny boy in a bulky winter coat with a knapsack sprinting down the sidewalk. His social anxiety, his fear of others thinking or saying something negative about him, doesn’t hold a candle to his fear of failure, the fear of being stuck like this, the fear of losing all he has left and becoming increasingly more miserable until he dies alone and young, because he suffered too much every day for his body to sustain him into old age. Or maybe he’d be cursed and be one of the rare few who lived into their hundreds.

He finds the place. The restaurant has apparently gone under, replaced with a dentist’s office, which is why he didn’t recognize the plaza. He’s late and he spends another two minutes outside the building trying to work up his courage to open the door. _You’re not that late, she’s always behind, you’ll be fine, you’ll probably still have to wait at least thirty minutes, just calm your breathing and GO IN_ he tells himself. Somehow it works and he’s inside the dark, maze like building. Luckily this part he can navigate by memory. He walks past the pharmacy and all the other offices until he reaches his doctor’s office that she shares with an Asian (Chinese?) cardiologist. He frowns upon entering. Not only are all the seats in the waiting room taken but he had forgotten that he’d have to deal with the new secretary. _Grin and bear it_ he advises himself. “Hi, I’m-“ but he receives a finger telling him to wait before he can get much further. The young woman’s on the ancient computer, it _could_ be work related, they finally are starting to convert everything over to digital, but it’s more than likely Facebook or some such nonsense. Merlin manages to get a peek at the screen, lovely, not just Facebook but Candy Crush, brilliant. He can’t help but tap his foot impatiently.

“How may I help you?” she finally asks, he hopes she lost (honestly he knows nothing about that game, is it even possible to lose?).

“I’m Merlin Emrys, I have a two o’clock appointment with Dr. Singh,” _please tell me you actually remembered to book me in_ because she has managed to forget last time and blamed it on the old secretary, which wasn’t possible because he and his mother had made the appointment before leaving the office and she was the only one there, only to discover, weeks later, that the appointment actually hadn’t been made.

She clicks around on the computer a bit before finally concluding, “All right, and do you have your health card?” He curses under his breath and quickly digs through his bag for his wallet and pulls out the card, he should have remembered to do this, now she’s looking impatient and probably ready to go back to Candy Crush. At last he’s victorious and he hands it over. “All right,” she says again, “and have you moved or changed your telephone number since you were last here?”

“No.”

“Any change in medical information, any new prescriptions, allergies…?”

“No,” she hands back his card and he puts it and his wallet away.

“All right,” he’s getting really sick of those words, “take a seat, Dr. Singh will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” he says out of habit, turning to get a seat before remembering that there are none. He props himself up against the brown corduroy wallpapered wall instead, finally setting his bag down to take off his coat and dig around for his water bottle. Just as he’s taking a swig an elderly man coughs and Merlin tenses unconsciously. He can’t get sick, maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t in a seat, but he’s drinking his water and he didn’t sanitize his hands, oh crap, did he touch anything. His health card, when it was handed back to him, _hopefully she washes her hands between each patient_ he says to himself knowing that it probably isn’t true.

Merlin’s got a _thing_ against all things medical. It doesn’t really make sense because Dr. Singh had been his doctor since he was a child and while she was often rude and difficult to understand due to her accent she was fairly competent and had never hurt him. He’d never really had a bad medical experience, sure he had had needles and his blood drawn and that was a bit traumatic for a kid but it was normal, and yet he couldn’t stand doctors, their offices, or anything health related. Perhaps it was a fear of contamination, a touch of OCD, or maybe it was his blood-injection-injury type phobia. He mentally bangs his head against the wall _why would you even think that? Now you’re going to be paranoid that she’ll ask for blood tests the entire time. Which she probably_ won’t _because you’re very much a man despite what some people say and you can’t get pregnant. But what if she wants to check your thyroid levels again? I can’t go through that again, I can’t. I’ll just walk out._

His attention is drawn away from his thoughts when an obese woman steps into the office with her walker and signs in, he sees her glance at the waiting area and then hears her ask the secretary how long the wait is. Merlin frowns when the secretary (and he really should know her name she’s “new” but has been there almost a year now) estimates that it is going to be an hour still until the two ten appointment slot. She then offers to call the woman on her cell phone if she wants to step out to wait to which the woman replies she’ll go eat lunch at McDonalds across the street then until the doctor can see her. _Great._

He eventually gets a seat and actually manages some reading, not really sure of how much he is memorizing but at least he’s taking notes. A young child, who’s been playing with the toys in the corner, almost knocks Merlin’s laptop off his lap when he rushes past to show his mother a toy car. When his mother, who is sitting next to Merlin, tells her son to apologize for bumping into him the boy turns, apologizes, and coughs in his face.

 _Just great_.

He’s packed up a few minutes ago, he should be next and his anxiety has sky rocketed, his leg stamping out a hurried tattoo against the carpeted floor. He’s trying to breathe but it isn’t working very well. No one is seated next to him at the moment and his back is to the wall so he risks pulling out his phone to stare at the picture of Arthur. It doesn’t bring a smile to his face this time, just a stirring in his chest, unfortunately the stirring is less like love and more like grief, grief of loss. _I can’t lose him. For him. For him. For him._ It becomes a steady mantra in his head and he almost misses when his name is called.

He follows Dr. Singh into an examination room (he’s not sure if that’s the proper name for it) and seats himself on the paper covered bed thing. Dr. Singh closes the door and sits on her stool. “How are you today?” she asks in her thick accent.

“Good,” Merlin replies automatically, because society has conditioned him to respond that way even though he’s doing really _really_ badly today.

“That’s good,” she responds while looking through his (still paper) file. “Now, last time you were here we set you up with a different psychologist, have you been to see Dr. Babinski?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah I went, first with my mum and then to a session on my own,” he tells her.

“Hmm,” he didn’t send me any notes, “just the two sessions so far then? Are you liking him?”

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about today,” he’s unable to meet her eyes, has gone through this argument too many times in his head, couldn’t even sleep last night.

“Merlin, we were very lucky I even had another psychologist on hand, normally I’d only have the psychiatrist, I’m sorry but if you don’t like Dr. Babinski you’ll have to find your own psychologist again.”

“I know,” he unconsciously reaches for his phone before realizing it could be seen as rude to pull it out while talking to her, “I know,” he repeats. “It’s true I don’t really like him, Dr. Song seemed much more competent.”

“Yes, but Dr. Song only deals with diagnosis and prescribing medication, which you said you didn’t want.”

He focuses on the pain of digging his nails into his palms, _there’s no escape now_ , “I know,” he chokes out. “It’s just, Dr. Babinski said that—said that he couldn’t really help me— that it sounded like I was already doing everything that could be done. And I know that that’s just his opinion, that if I kept going to sessions we might find out that there are things I can do differently, or if I keep looking I could find someone who could help me. It—it really hurt, to be told that he couldn’t help me. He said at the beginning, when mum was there, that he wouldn’t push antidepressants but during the second session he said that was his only suggestion. This was after I had just spent an hour telling him about the _one_ thing I had. The. One. Thing. Was that I was true to myself. And I swore that I’d be strong enough, my whole life I’ve fought without medication whenever possible because it’s against my philosophy. And it felt like he was saying ‘well either take antidepressants and come to terms that your suffering has been in vain or suffer for the rest of your life.’ And I know I could go around and find another psychologist, or social worker, or even a life coach, but I’ve been to _four_ different mental healthcare specialists and it’s been six years since I started this ‘journey’ to getting better. I was supposed to be well before high school graduation and here I am about to graduate from university next year and I’m still not better. I _could_ keep looking, and maybe there is someone out there, but how long will it take to find them?” At this point he has to stop, breathe, even go into his bag for his water, and Dr. Singh, who has listened quietly all this time hands him a tissue, and he should be embarrassed, but honestly, he’s just too emotionally exhausted to be embarrassed. “I—“ and he has to clear his throat and try again, “I can’t go on like this,” he admits at last, only one step away from defeat, and there’s no other direction to go from here except to his defeat, and it is self-imposed too, which makes it so much worse somehow.

“And so what would you like to do, Merlin?”

“I…” Breathe in. Breathe out. “I would like to go on antidepressants”… the ticking of the clock is awfully loud… “please,” he adds, hoping it will soften the blow. When he has the courage to look up again Dr. Singh isn’t laughing at him, or judging him for changing his mind after fighting medication for all these years, nor is she congratulating him for finally coming to his senses. Instead she’s writing out the prescription and she then rips it off the pad and hands it to him without a word.

“Was there anything else I can do for you today, Merlin?” And he’s a little shell shocked, he has the key to his salvation, his destruction, in his hands, it was that easy.

“Uh, no. Uh, thank you,” he says getting up and carefully putting the prescription in his bag so he doesn’t lose it.

“Before you go, I have to ask,” and he cringes, waiting for the blow, “this sudden change wasn’t due to stronger inclinations to suicide or recent suicidal behaviour, was it?”

 _Oh,_ “Uh, no, not really. A little more depressed because of what Dr. Babinski said and a little more anxious about finals and finding a summer job and volunteer experience, but no more suicidal than before.

“So what changed?”

He smiles to himself, hand on the doorknob and she can’t see his face. She doesn’t know about his sexual orientation, there was no reason for him to inform her in the past. He hates to stereotype but he doesn’t think Indians take too kindly to gays, but he won’t lie, he’s not ashamed, not of Arthur, never of Arthur. “I have a boyfriend,” he tells her, “and he’s wonderful and supportive and I don’t want to lose him. I worry about it constantly because I know I’ve done it in the past, I end up pushing people away. I was so alone before I met him, for probably nine of the twelve years I’ve been depressed it’s just been me and mum because I can’t make friends. And then one day I worked up the courage to go to my school’s LGBT+ meeting and he was there and he was persistent and somehow we’ve been dating for three months and he hasn’t left, and… yeah.” He risks a glance over his shoulder at her and to his surprise the old, stern woman he’s known almost all his life appears to be smiling at him with affection.

“He sounds wonderful Merlin. I wish you happiness.” And somehow, someway, that was the perfect thing to say. He’s not better yet, he still needs to worry about picking up the prescription and finding his way home and he doesn’t want anyone to know yet. He doesn’t want to get their hopes up. He’ll worry about side effects and forgetting to take the pills or them not working. He’ll berate himself for putting so much faith in them, they aren’t a miracle cure, they won’t just _make_ him happy. He’ll almost go off them because there’s been no effect before he’ll remind himself that they take at least three weeks to do anything. He’ll worry about becoming a completely different person on them, about his new self hating his old self or vice versa. Then go on to berate himself about thinking such stupid thoughts or for caving in the first place and taking medication even though his nine year old self swore he would never take medicine for anything unless absolutely necessary.

And then, one morning, sometime in June, he’ll wake up and Arthur’ll be beside him, morning sunlight caught in his hair. Arthur will be awake and watching him and Merlin’ll smile because it makes him feel loved. In turn that will cause Arthur to smile and they’ll laugh at each other and maybe fight each other a bit in attempt to beat the other to the bathroom and when Merlin wins, locking the door behind his boyfriend for good measure, he’ll smile to himself when he reaches for his medication that’s hidden under a lose tile because he’ll realize that he hasn’t thought of killing himself in over three months, nor has he been plagued by fear and anxiety, so maybe defeat wasn’t so horrible after all. He’s not certain that he and Arthur will be forever, but he’s certain that they are _here_ and they are _now_ and the medication has helped him ignore the _should have_ s and the _could have_ s and the _what if_ s and instead all there is is _them_ , and that makes him pretty damn happy.

* * *

 

Arthur will smile, on the other side of the bathroom door, waiting for Merlin to retrieve his pill bottle (because of course this whole thing was planned, Arthur Pendragon does not lose), just a touch of anxiety in his heart, Merlin will scream, but seeing as that scream will be more of a squeal he’s okay. Merlin will unlock the door throwing it open, he won’t even try to conceal the pill bottle in his left hand, he’ll sticks his right hand under Arthur’s nose. “What is this?” he’ll ask, even though he knows, but he probably feels like he’s jumping to conclusions. So Arthur will get down onto one knee, pulling out the box he managed to sneak into the pocket of his robe, presenting it even though its contents are in Merlin’s hand already and ask, “Marry me?”

(So maybe they are meant to be forever too.)


End file.
